


let me go (ask me to stay)

by perfectlyelegantdelusion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel is falling, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, and there is nothing Dean can do about it, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28791321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlyelegantdelusion/pseuds/perfectlyelegantdelusion
Summary: “Whatever choice I make, it always seems to be the wrong one. You are infuriating, and so quick to judge. Do yourself a favor and just tell me to go,” Cas says. “You’ve done that before.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 218
Collections: Dean/Cas Tropefest 2021 Mid-Winter 5k





	let me go (ask me to stay)

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes for @charlie-minion, who gave me the prompt years ago. You've inspired me to be brave and unapologetic about doing what I love. The wall slamming is for you, baby.
> 
> My eternal love and gratitude to fellow scorpios @amyoatmeal and @campchitaquamemories for beta reading this for me and being a constant source of support, especially in the middle of the night when I google proper English words for 'sport suit track pants'. 
> 
> Special thanks to the mods of deancastropefest for being the most chill. You're wonderful, we love you!
> 
> To anyone who reads this, thank you. I hope you enjoy it.

> Water is fluid, soft, and yielding. But water will wear away rock, which is rigid and cannot yield. As a rule, whatever is fluid, soft, and yielding will overcome whatever is rigid and hard. This is another paradox: what is soft is strong. -- Lao-Tzu

When Dean turns the light on, the bunker greets them with soft electrical humming in the walls. Their footsteps echo in the heavy silence as they make it down to the library and Dean cannot wait to finally shut the world out for a few hours from the solace of his bedroom. It was a rough hunt and a long drive, and the nagging headache makes a reappearance despite the couple of Advil he popped before their ride back. His bruised knuckles throb and his back cries for the comforts of the memory foam. He turns to mutter _‘g’night’_ to no one in particular when Sam clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Well, I’m going to take a shower and turn in,” he says briskly, voice sounding tired and remarkably fed-up, “so you two can go ahead and figure out whatever it is you need to figure out.”

He fixes Dean and Castiel with a stare. Dean avoids so much as glancing at the angel, but he is pretty sure they both glare at Sam in unison.

“I don’t care what you do. Yell at each other, throw some punches, have a heart-to-heart or fucking kiss and make up,” Sam emphatically throws his hands up, then gestures between his brother and the angel. “I can’t possibly listen to any more of your bitching. Suck it up and fucking deal with it, or the next case we find, I’m working it with Garth.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. Dean feels it rather than sees it, his attention focused on studying the blood stain on his jeans. Clearly frustrated, Sam runs his uninjured hand through his hair, and for a second it looks like he wants to say something else, but quickly changes his mind and settles on a noncommittal sigh, heading in the direction of the showers with his duffel bag over the shoulder.

When the sounds of his footsteps recede, the library drowns in silence. Neither Dean, nor Cas are willing to start talking, but neither of them make a move to retreat to their respective bedrooms. Dean randomly picks up some of the books cluttering the table when he hears the noise of a chair being pulled out and clothes rustling. Taking a glimpse at the angel, he finds Cas sitting in the chair, arms folded on his chest. He is looking at Dean now, left eyebrow raised expectantly.

 _Fuck that eyebrow_ , Dean thinks. Fuck the day those nasty witches decided making human sacrifices was a fun way to spend their weekend. Fuck the day Dean was born, for that matter.

“Hm,” Cas hums, and tilts his head thoughtfully.

Dean drops the books back onto the table, exasperated. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” the angel replies matter-of-factly. “It occurred to me you’ve just provided the perfect definition for ‘overdramatic’. I found it amusing.” Absent-mindedly, Castiel rubs at his chest, where the piece of pinkish white gauze is visible through the singed gaping hole in his usual get-up.

Dean bristles, “Amusing? Jesus fucking Christ, Cas. Look at you! That bitch almost fried you!” He gestures wildly at the ruined clothes. “And you find it amusing?” Dean shakes his head in disbelief, then drags a palm over his face. “Screw this, I’m going to bed, I need my four hours. You can borrow some of my stuff to change into or keep sitting pretty, see if I care.”

When he turns around and heads for his bedroom, Castiel gets up to follow with another amused huff. “It’s a mild burn. You’ve been acting like a drama queen all day, and now it’s like you have ‘overdramatic’ written across your forehead. And Dean, let me assure you, I can read.”

Dean feels his hackles rising and he pushes his bedroom door open with such force it rebounds off the wall with a _bang_.

“Fuck you, Cas!” He goes for the dresser, grabs the first t-shirt and joggers he sees in the drawer, and angrily shoves the clothes into Cas’s hands. “Fuck you! You think this is funny? You think jumping in front of a witch and getting blasted with some fucking fire ball or whatever the fuck it was is _funny_? Do you see me laughing?” Dean’s panting by the time he’s finished, frustration washing over him. He takes a steadying breath and balls his hands into fists in some semblance of control, forcing his voice to sound even but drastically failing. “For a guy who claims he can read, you definitely should have those eyes checked!”

Suddenly, the atmosphere between them shifts. The temperature drops by a few degrees. Castiel just stands there, Dean’s clothes clutched in his hands. The lines of his face harden as he levels Dean with a stare that sends shivers down his spine.

“I might be weak,” Castiel seethes in a low and dangerously quiet voice, “and my grace might be dwindling, but let me remind you that I am still an angel. I will always be an angel,” he continues, punctuating each word as if Dean is a stubborn child throwing a tantrum over something exceptionally insignificant. “Yet even fallen and graceless, I’ll always be there to protect you. No one can take that away from me. Not even you.”

The air cracks with static, and it makes goosebumps prickle across Dean’s arms and neck. His hands are shaking, and he distractedly stuffs them in the pockets of his jeans. The crippling terror paralyzes him again, renders him numb as the image of a familiar, lifeless body collapsing onto the floor replays in his mind on a loop. Dean’s chest tightens and he has to remind himself to breathe through the panic. It reaches for his throat and burns hot on his skin, a shock of contrast to the chill rapidly building inside.

“I don’t need that.”

Dean doesn’t recognize his own voice. It sounds as if it comes from someone else, someone hollow and completely detached. “I don’t need that,” he repeats, looking to Castiel, whose expression shifts from determined to guarded and unreadable. “I don’t need to add any more responsibility to my plate. You keep making dumb decisions and I keep being the one having to deal with the consequences. If that’s your idea of protecting me, I don’t want it.”

Dean’s chest hurts. His heart aches as if repeatedly stabbed; sharp pain echoes through his body as it reaches his stomach and he desperately wishes for a drink. For painkillers. For a hard mix of both. For anything that will let him forget, move on, not care. Not see the way Cas is looking at him right now, face drawn and jaw set, shaking his head just barely, as if he cannot believe his own ears.

Dean wants to say something, to comfort or apologize or make an excuse and leave the room, the bunker, maybe even skip the city. But no words find their way to his mouth, and he just stands there, unable to move, stunned by his own cruelty, prepared to watch Castiel storm out on him.

With just a few words Dean manages to take away something that was never supposed to belong to him. He breaks trust, shatters hope, denies himself the only thing he’s ever truly wanted. Shuts out the light to save it from burning out because he’s selfish. He won’t make it in the darkness.

Castiel stops in front of the door, stills himself. His hand goes for the knob and he carefully closes the door with a _click_ . Silence settles in the bedroom, and the only thing Dean can hear is the rapid _thump-thump-thump_ of his heart that is still trying to make an escape.

“Have you ever considered what _I_ need?” The angel turns to face Dean, and there isn’t a trace of defeat in his stance; it’s all fire and brimstone. “What _I_ want?” He slowly closes the distance between them, voice steady and unwavering. “You keep the list of my mistakes and use it as a whip any time I come too close or go too far.” Castiel pauses, eyes boring into Dean’s, realising… “And I let you.”

“I let you push me around— I let you push me against the wall. It should be terrifying how much power you have over me, but it’s not. Not to me. But maybe it is, to you.”

The words deliver such a powerful blow, Dean has to take a step back to keep his composure. Castiel’s gaze works as a spider’s web: once caught in it, there’s little chance of getting out. The heat crawls up Dean’s body, burning through his skin. The lump in his throat feels like a permanent fixture.

He has never seen Castiel this frank and vulnerable. So human, so caught up in the moment and overwhelmed by emotion, aiming every bit of hard truth to hit the mark. They’ve danced around things unsaid for years, and now the music has stopped. There is nothing but the white noise at the end of the tape.

Castiel grabs fistfuls of Dean’s overshirt, shaking him as if to wake him, to elicit any kind of reaction, but there is nothing Dean can say. His hands instinctively close around Castiel’s wrists to keep his balance. He holds on for dear life, because Cas is an ocean and Dean is about to be swept away.

“Whatever choice I make, it always seems to be the wrong one. You are infuriating, and so quick to judge. Do yourself a favor and just tell me to go,” Cas says, “You’ve done that before.” His voice finally breaks and Dean almost cries out at the sheer pain of it. “Tell me not to overcomplicate things. Tell me you don’t need me and just let me go.” The blue eyes glistening, pleading now. “Let me go.”

And because Dean is a selfish bastard, he lunges forward and kisses him. He needs Cas to shut up. The whirlpool of emotions strips Dean of the ability to think, so he just acts, on instinct, on a whim. The kiss is short and rough, more an attack on Cas’s mouth than anything else, because the angel doesn’t respond, has no time to react as Dean flinches and looks at Cas’s parted lips in shock, his brain finally catching up.

A moment passes. It feels like a lifetime. And Dean desperately searches for words to backtrack when Cas growls in frustration, pinning Dean’s hands to the wall, and kisses him like that’s the only thing on his mind. Cas’s lips are soft, his tongue insistent. Dean welcomes Cas in his mouth, kissing him back, his wrists tingling with Cas’s hands on them. They’re caught in the storm of rough touches, years of pent-up energy finally finding the outlet. Dean moans when Cas’s hands start roaming his body, when Cas’s lips travel to his neck, sucking a mark there. For once, his head is blissfully empty, and he allows himself to just react, to sink his hand into Cas’s unruly hair, to feel his skin prickle at the sound Cas makes in response. The angel’s hands find their way under Dean’s t-shirt and the skin-to-skin contact makes him suck in a ragged breath. Cas’s hands are warm and strong on his back, and Dean feels like there are too many layers between them. He finds Cas’s lips again, allows his own hands to finally yield to the free will of their own. He goes for the trenchcoat first, and his touch turns a little softer around the injury.

Sensing the subtle change in Dean’s demeanor, Castiel breaks the kiss. “Now you’re treating me like I’m made of glass? You haven’t ever gone easy on me; don’t you dare start now.”

Dean narrows his eyes and doesn’t say anything. They’re both panting, lips swollen, pupils blown. Dean’s dick is crying for attention. He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t even make an effort. Dean simply _wants_. He spins them around and pushes Cas into the wall. The angel grunts when his back hits the hard concrete. His cheeks are pink against the stubble and Dean feels his own jaw burning. He lets his eyes roam Cas’s body openly for the first time, the pinkish gauze a mocking reminder of his failures.

Dean grabs the angel by the shoulders and turns him around. Cas rests his forehead against the wall and Dean’s heart skips a bit at the sight. This ancient being, this wavelength of celestial intent completely at Dean’s mercy, surrendered to his will. For a moment Dean soaks in the feeling. Cas may not want to understand the whys behind Dean’s actions, but he seems to have gotten one thing right. Dean is terrified of the power he has over the angel, terrified of the readiness with which Castiel gives in to him.

Dean’s hands are efficient as he gets rid of the layers between them: the jacket, the tie, the oversized shirt. He can feel the angel trembling under his touch, and he sheds his own flannel and tee, presses his bare chest against Castiel’s wide back. Cas throws back his head, the pleasure of contact rippling through him. Dean goes for his neck, kissing, sucking. Marking. Revealing this greedy, needy part of him that has been buried deep for years, _decades_ . He closes his eyes and revels in the sensations, in the sounds Cas makes when Dean’s hands travel to his belt and start unbuckling it. His own erection presses insistently against Cas’s ass, and they both moan when Dean’s hand slips down the waistband of Cas’s boxers and finally wraps around his hardened cock. Dean feels the muscles in Cas’s shoulders tighten as he strokes him once, twice, slowly, dragging the time, teasing. Snickers at the angel’s soft _ahhhh_ when he drags his palm against Cas’s balls, and that awards him with an impatient growl.

Suddenly, his wrists are in Cas’s grip and he’s being walked with his back to the bed, almost tripping over the clothes haphazardly thrown onto the floor. Castiel looks wild, his hair a mess, neck red from Dean’s stubble and peppered with bite marks. Dean reminds himself to breathe when his eyes land on Castiel’s chest and the enormity of what he’s done bursts upon him. He crossed the line. Somehow, in the span of an hour he crossed so many lines, he can’t even tell where he’s at right now. No lines, no rules, no borders. Just him, and Cas, and this free fall they’re both caught in. Nothing to define things by. His knees hit the edge of the bed, and he falls down willingly, dragging Cas with him.

When they kiss again, it’s not a battle anymore, it’s a collaboration. They move in unison. Dean kisses Cas, and every kiss is an attempt to take back what he said, to soothe the invisible wounds he inflicted. Cas kisses him back, nuzzles his neck, sucks on his collarbone, licks at his nipples, and every touch feels like forgiveness pressed against his skin. They fill the silence with gasps and moans, the sounds of skin on skin, not leaving any room for words.

When Cas takes him into his mouth, Dean gasps and throws back his head on the pillow. His eyes fall shut for a moment, and he buries his fingers in Cas’s hair to ground himself. When the heat of the mouth is gone, replaced with a hand gently stroking his shaft, Dean lifts his head and meets the blue eyes studying him intently. He can’t make himself look away, so he stares, awe-struck, as Cas’s mouth travels to Dean’s inner thigh, eyes not leaving Dean’s face for a moment.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean half-sighs, half-moans, as the angel sucks a mark into the soft skin, stroking him almost lazily. The intensity of the moment is so overwhelming, Dean almost wishes they’d go back to the desperate groping, being quick and dirty about it. He wants more, wants it rough, but Cas is focusing on what he _needs_ . Reassurance. Forgiveness. Reverence. Dean is not sure he can handle any of it, but Cas’s gaze is steady as he brings him closer to the edge. They don’t break eye-contact when Cas starts sucking on Dean’s head, pumping him faster, twisting his wrist just so. When Dean comes, Cas hums greedily around him, and the sound breaks something in Dean, shatters the remains of poorly built walls, of all the _don’ts_ and _shouldn’ts_. It’s Cas, right here, and it’s something Dean doesn’t deserve to have, but – somehow - has anyway.

Dean pulls Cas up and kisses him fervently, tasting himself on his lips. The angel goes willingly, just like he always does, and Dean’s heart is bursting out of his chest with _what ifs_.

What if he breaks Cas? What if he loses him, again? What if Cas regrets this? What if this is the biggest fucking mistake of his life? What if, what if, what if...

Dean lets out a strangled cry, shutting those thoughts off. He focuses on fucking Cas’s mouth with his tongue, on stroking Cas, grazing his frenulum with a finger. He focuses on the way Cas breathes a soft “ _Dean”_ into his mouth, on the way his hands tighten around Dean as he’s coming in his fist. On his weight, his presence, his solidity.

When they break apart, the quiet sound of their breathing welcomes back the silence. Dean doesn’t know how long they lie like that. The high is giving way to anxiety that’s giving way to panic, so he tries to keep focusing on Cas, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. The gauze keeps mocking him, and Dean notices it’s gone from pinkish white to much more pronounced pink.

With a weary sigh, he gets up from the bed, picks up his discarded t-shirt from the floor, and wipes himself off, then tosses it to Cas, who eyes Dean suspiciously but follows his lead anyway. Dean retrieves a medical kit from the shelf and comes back to Cas. He keeps his touch clinical. Works efficiently, reapplying the antibacterial cream and redressing the wound. Cas studies his face all this time, but only speaks when Dean gets up to put the kit back in its place.

“Are you alright?” he asks, quietly.

Dean nods. “Yeah.”

He avoids looking at Cas, though, as he finds his jeans and puts them on. “Just thirsty. Gotta grab some water from the kitchen.”

He slips out of the door, not waiting for Cas to respond.

The kitchen lights are on, but Dean’s deep in his thoughts, so he doesn’t notice Sam right away. His brother sits at the table, a book and a mug of steaming tea in front of him. The scent of herbal mix lingers in the air.

“Can’t sleep?” Dean asks, hoarsely. He goes for the fridge and grabs two bottles of water, feeling Sam’s stare on his bare back. He uncaps one of the bottles right there and takes a long gulp, stalling before he has to face his brother.

Sam clears his throat. “Yeah.”

Dean nods, more to himself than anything else, and opens the pantry. He’s not particularly hungry, but also hasn’t eaten since breakfast, so he grabs the first things he sees on the shelf just to save himself another trip to the kitchen later. It’s a jar of Nutella and a pack of plain croissants that’s somehow survived since the last time they had to go for supplies.

Sam’s eyebrows go up in amused surprise when Dean turns to leave the kitchen.

“Grab a spoon, maybe?” Sam suggests, cautiously. “You know, if you guys aren’t planning to use your fingers instead.”

Dean stops in his track, cheeks burning. He expected the call out, knows what he looks like, with the swollen lips and mussed hair, bare-chested and covered in distinctly apparent lovebites. He absently wonders if the bruises on his back are already visible as well. It sounds like Sam’s teasing, but now everything is out in the open, somewhere it can’t be avoided much longer. Dean makes a vague gesture with his hand.

“I see you decided to go with kissing and making up,” Sam ventures.

‘Decided’ implies there was an actual thought process behind all that. There was none. Dean just went for it, and now the high tide is subsiding, leaving in its wake the questions he’s not sure he has answers to.

“Yeah, and fucking.” He fixes Sam with a challenging stare. “Are we going to have a problem?”

“You’re a jerk for even asking me that,” Sam says tiredly, as if they’ve been having this conversation for years. “You’re my brother, and he’s my friend. The only thing I would not be okay with is losing either of you.”

Dean hums. He gets the hint; the problem is he has no fucking idea what happens next. He grabs a spoon from the counter as an afterthought. 

“Night, Sammy.”

When he pushes his bedroom door open, Cas is right there. He’s wearing Dean’s old AC/DC t-shirt and grey joggers Dean gave him earlier. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights, and maybe Dean hasn’t the foggiest clue where to go from here, but one thing is clear: he can’t let Cas leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Dean asks gruffly. He goes to sit on the bed and pushes a bottle of water in Cas’s direction. The angel cautiously takes it and sits across from Dean, brows furrowed.

“I- I don’t know. I didn’t think it through,” he admits, expression puzzled.

 _Well, at least we’re on the same page there_ , Dean thinks. He opens the jar and spreads some of the contents on a croissant. At least while he’s chewing there’s a legitimate reason for this silence between them. Cas studies him, and Dean lets him, catches his eyes and stares back, acknowledging the tension. He doesn’t know how to navigate this, whatever it is, so he offers the jar to Cas as a gesture of goodwill. The angel takes and sniffs it, seemingly pleased with the aroma. He takes a spoonful into his mouth, and Dean can’t help but notice how his lips close around it. Just half an hour ago that mouth was wrapped around his dick, and Jesus fucking Christ, how is Dean still functioning? Cas hums in appreciation, and Dean’s heart sinks, as yet another piece of evidence falls into place. He clears his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

Cas freezes, the spoon he’s just licked clean doesn’t make it back into the jar. “Okay,” he says guardedly, but then it’s like the fight goes out of him and he continues, “well, we can pretend-“

Dean curses and hurriedly grabs his hand, “Wait, shit, no! I didn’t mean-“

He doesn’t mean it like that. Should he, though? Should he just apologize and pretend nothing has happened, nothing has fundamentally changed?

“You’re not sorry about this?” Cas tries to clarify, vaguely gesturing around the room with the spoon.

“I’m sorry you’re falling,” Dean answers instead, giving Cas’s hand a squeeze. He nods to the jar still in Cas’s lap, “you like the taste, huh?”

Surprised, Cas drops his gaze to the chocolate spread. “It is… rather enjoyable.”

“Sorry,” Dean repeats. And he is, he’s so fucking sorry for everything, the word doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s sorry Cas doesn’t have anyone except for the Winchesters anymore, he’s sorry Cas lost his wings, his home, his holiness, his powers. He’s sorry Cas keeps falling and falling, and Dean doesn’t really know if he’ll be able to catch Cas before he finally hits the ground. He’s sorry he’s such an asshole, sorry Cas keeps choosing him every time, even though it’s the opposite of what he should be doing. He’s sorry he fell in love with an angel, but he is also unapologetic about it for so many reasons, because-

Well, it’s Cas. It’s been literal years, and Dean’s only human.

Cas places his hands on Dean’s shoulders, squeezes them, bringing Dean back from the whirlwind of thoughts. He’s close, his breath sweet on Dean’s lips, “I’m not sorry for anything,” he says, “I’ll take it all, the good, the bad, all of it. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Dean nods, and lightly touches the band logo on Cas’s t-shirt, where he knows the wound is still raw and red under that piece of gauze. _And look where it’s gotten you_ , he thinks bitterly, but leaves the sentiment unsaid.

“Stay?” he asks instead, and the meaning behind the request lingers. _Here? In this room? In this bed? With me?_

Cas visibly relaxes, a hint of a small smile on his lips, reserved just for Dean.

“Always.”

Dean’s breath catches at the quiet admission, and he leans in into the warmth of Cas’s embrace. This time, he enjoys the silence that follows, and for now this will have to be enough.


End file.
